


Of Bureaucrats and Annual Leave

by welshscotsman



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 12:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20723999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welshscotsman/pseuds/welshscotsman
Summary: When Crowley takes time off halfway through their stint with the Dowlings, Aziraphale becomes suspicious and goes and investigates. He finds out that Crowley may not have been as 'fine' as he originally thought.





	Of Bureaucrats and Annual Leave

In all the years Aziraphale had known him, Crowley had never taken annual leave. For an organisation that was big on encouraging sin, Hell didn’t exactly relish it from its employees. Of course, ‘employees’ implied some sort of choice in the matter, and usually work that was rewarded through economic means, rather than those who had been declared damned and forced to work out the eternity of their existence collecting souls as penance for some great unforgivable sin for no discernable reward beyond not being condemned to the deepest, darkest pits. But still. The point was that Hell didn’t exactly encourage time off. Even if it did encourage slothfulness in general. 

And Crowley, no matter how much he may deny it, did have some sort of work ethic. Indeed, when he had pulled his M25 stunt back in the 1970s, he had worked every waking - and many sleeping - hours to ensure everything was in place for its grand opening in 1986, so yes, Aziraphale was well aware of his commitment to hard work. This commitment increased tremendously in direct correlation with the degree to which it would keep Hell off his back and his current assignment - raise the Antichrist in the ways of evil - certainly qualified as ‘keeping Hell off his back for the foreseeable.’ It therefore seemed inconceivable that Crowley would take annual leave at such a crucial time in the operation. Such an act would ensure that young Warlock was raised in the way of the light and directly undo six years of hard work and yet, according to the butler, that was exactly what Crowley had done. Signed off for the next two weeks with not so much as a by your leave. 

It was for this reason and this reason only that Aziraphale was standing directly outside Crowley’s personal living space eyeing the buzzer warily. He’d never been here before. Had never seen the need to when Crowley always seemed to find himself in the bookshop, and now they were practically working together on the same job, there had been even less of a reason. And of course there had been the very practical reason that the bookshop offered greater deniability should their superiors happen to pick up on their activities. He couldn’t help it if a demon walked into his very open to the public bookshop. He didn’t think he could explain away his presence in said demon’s personal lair in quite the same way.

Nonetheless, he knew where Crowley lived. Had always known in fact. Demons weren’t exactly difficult to track down in central London. Even if they did live within a stone’s throw of Parliament. He’d just chosen not to utilise that information, that was all. Still, that didn’t stop him from looking around nervously as if the forces of Hell - or Heaven come to that - might pounce upon him at any moment.

No, he was being ridiculous. He was here in his official capacity as a representative of Heaven on Earth investigating the mysterious activities of the demon Crowley who had, apparently on a whim, decided to take annual leave. Who knew what he was up to? What trouble he was causing? No, he absolutely should be here and before he could doubt himself further, Aziraphale rapped on the door, eyes darting when the sound echoed throughout the otherwise empty hallway. 

A beat. 

Two.

Three.

Nothing.

Crowley was in there. He was so close that his aura was simply overwhelming and yet...Oh. Oh dear.

Aziraphale rapped again. Louder this time. “Crowley. I know you’re in there, and I am not leaving until - oh my.”

The door was wrenched open. “D’you wanna shout a bit louder? I don’t think the Almighty heard it,” hissed Crowley.

Aziraphale stepped back and frowned. Crowley looked far from his usually perfectly put together self: his auburn hair was tied back messily, his skin ashen, and he was sure he could see the beginnings of indigo smudges under the edges of his sunglasses. “My dear boy, are you quite alright?”

“Yes. I’m fine. No evil happening here, so if there was nothing else…” Crowley made a dismissive gesture with his hand and began to close the door.

“Well actually there was, yes. You see I thought, seeings as I have you here now, we could catch up about the boy,” Aziraphale pushed past the door and into Crowley’s flat.”You see, as I am sure you are aware, the boy starts school soon, and that’s going to introduce many other influences into his life that we’re going to have to account for when going about our own activities...” Aziraphale walked further and further down the corridor as he talked, as if they were on a stroll through St James,’ talking about the weather, and Crowley’s aura wasn’t screaming ‘leave me alone’ loud and clear. 

Crowley for his part stood frozen at this brazenness before he seemed to snap out of it, closing the door and following Aziraphale down the corridor. “Angel, you can’t just-”

“Living room through here, is it, dear?” Aziraphale carried on to the room at the end of the corridor and was met with a sparse space in which there was what looked like King Arthur’s throne, and a desk upon which there were several empty bottles and discarded glasses. 

He tutted. “Oh, this simply won’t do.” With a wave of his hand, he cleared the desk of empty bottles and miracled up a medium sized sofa that was, surprisingly, in keeping with the aesthetic of the room.  
“Angel! You can’t just come into someone else’s living space and miracle up furniture!”said Crowley, waving his hand around for emphasis.

“So miracle it away then,” said Aziraphale calmly as he sat himself down on the sofa and folded his hands neatly in his lap.

“Ngk.” Crowley dropped into his throne, grabbing the nearest bottle and swinging his feet up to rest on the polished desk. He poured a glass and offered it to Aziraphale. “Seeings as you’re staying.”

Aziraphale’s eye was drawn to the mottled shades of indigo that peeked out fro under Crowley’s sleeve. “Thank you, dear,” said Aziraphale absently, as he took it and sipped at it quietly, his mind whirring. Bruising. There was dark bruising around Crowley’s wrists that disappeared under the sleeves of his t-shirt. 

Crowley poured a generous amount into a second glass. He held his glass up. “Cheers.” There was no feeling in the words. Certainly none in the way he downed the liquid in one go. Aziraphale let Crowley down his third and then his fourth glass. Crowley had been held - grabbed - in such a way as to maim him, but who? 

With each glass, the tension seemed to inch out of Crowley until the fear and anger seemed to burst out of him.

“Come on then. Hit me. Antichrist.” Crowley had managed to slouch even further down on his throne. If he wasn’t careful, he would slip off. 

“Yes. Well.” Aziraphale dragged himself out of his reverie and sat up straighter, forgetting that he had had no intention of actually discussing the boy. “My concern is that when he starts school, he’ll have several other influences in his life that could detract from ours.”

Crowley waved a hand dismissively. He was now sitting in an excellent V-shape, his feet up high on his desk. “Future problems.”

“Yes, but, I really think -”

“Future problems. More opportunities. Think. All that forgotten homework. All that bullying.”

“You are not turning Warlock into a playground bully.”

“Why not? Give him practise before the real thing.”

“Because he’s a child, Crowley!”  
“Yes, which is why you’ll be there thwarting and making sure he joins the chess club or something.” Crowley sounded exasperated.

“Yes. Well. I still think the plan needs refining somewhat. I-”

“The whole thing needs refining. Absolutely fucking shit waste of time, if you ask me.” Crowley swung his legs down off the table and stalked over to the window. “Fucking stupid idea, is what it was,” he muttered, staring across at Westminster, arms folded, back to Aziraphale, shoulders hunched. 

Aziraphale froze in alarm. Anger and hurt and fear poured off of Crowley in waves that he couldn’t help but pick up on, and the biggest problem was that he didn’t know why. He thought of the bruises on his wrists and wondered where else he’d been hurt. How he’d been hurt. They’d seen each other fairly regularly over the years and Crowley had seemed fine, and yet here he was, taking annual leave and drinking and clearly not fine and Aziraphale didn’t know why.

He swallowed around his suddenly dry throat. “Crowley, my dear...what’s happened?” His words were soft. Quiet. Tentative. Afraid of disturbing the delicate balance that currently existed in the room. One wrong step and Crowley would flee.

Crowley sniffed and his shoulders hunched further. “Nothing,” he said quietly. “Nothing for you to worry yourself about, angel.”

“Crowley…”Aziraphale hesitated. He wanted to get up and go to Crowley, to offer some comfort, but the other part of him was frozen to the spot. What had Crowley got himself into? 

“What do you think of Mr Dowling?” asked Crowley, his tone deceptively casual. His gaze was fixed on the commuters below, but Aziraphale knew that he was being tested. That his answer was important. That his tone and pitch and the speed with which he answered would be analysed. That if he was found wanting, Crowley would shut down entirely. Maybe down another bottle and turn the conversation to sea life. It was important he got this right.

“I … “ He so needed to get this right. “Typical American diplomat really.”

“Mm? How so?” Crowley’s head angled towards him. Aziraphale’s stomach unknotted just slightly. He hadn’t lost him just yet. 

“Oh. Well.” He fumbled for the right words. “You know. A bit too loud. A bit too opinionated. A bit too entitled. Just...just a lot of ‘bit toos’ really.”

Crowley turned to face him.”You don’t like him?” There was hope in his tone.

“Well, I…” Aziraphale had never really had an opinion of the man either way. “I’ve never really had anything to do with him beyond the odd bit of paperwork, and I’m sure...you would have a much better idea of him than I would,” he said carefully. “Diplomats were your lot’s idea after all, weren’t they?” He got a tug of the lips for that.

“Mm. Terrible idea really.”Crowley swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “State power in one man working a long way from home... Make a man think he could get away with anything …’specially if… “ He swallowed and downed the liquid. “Well. Nobody’s gonna chase that up.”

Aziraphale frowned, the back of his neck prickling. “Crowley, did… something happen? With Mr Dowling I mean?” Mr Dowling who was easily Crowley’s height and at least twice his weight. Mr Dowling who had such a temper that servants hid when he was on the warpath. Mr Dowling who held all the power in the house.

Crowley’s mouth worked and Aziraphale felt rather than saw his eyes drift up to meet his before skittering away again.

“Tell me?” A request rather than a command.

Crowley stood by the window of his own living room, alone and exposed for so long that Aziraphale thought he’d dismissed the idea entirely, and then, impossibly, miraculously, he slowly came back round the desk. “‘S stupid,” muttered Crowley, sitting on the throne properly this time. He leant forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands rubbing anxiously between them, facing Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale leant forward, mirroring his pose. “Then tell me,” he said softly.

Crowley’s head dropped to focus on his hands. Auburn strands had escaped his haphazard style and were now starting to fall around his face.

“Mr Dowling, he….” He let out a breath. “He would make a good, fourteenth century demon.” He glanced up. “Big on the Big Seven, you see. Gluttony, wrath…” His gaze dropped. “Lust.” The hum of traffic came through the windows. “Has quite the eye for the ladies as it turns out.” He picked at his thumbnail. “Especially young, seventeen year old kitchen hands with nowhere else to go.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I don’t…”

“You know Jenny the kitchen hand?” Aziraphale nodded. “One night I saw him try to…” He waved a hand. “You know. I couldn’t let that happen, Aziraphale. She was just a kid. So I … “ He swayed. “Used some of my ‘demonic wiles’ to divert his attention over to me. Thought it wouldn’t matter. I was a demon, he was a mortal, I’d just...I dunno really, wasn’t really thinking beyond getting him away from her.” He sniffed. “Turns out demonic wiles do fuck all when said mortal is wearing a blessed crucifix.”

“Oh….fuck.”

“Mm. ‘Cept by then I’d tempted the bastard, hadn’t I? He didn’t want anyone else then - not that I’d’ve let him mind you - but, and so - but we had a job to do, and we - I - couldn’t muck it up, and having the Antichrist’s dad traumatically murdered would definitely have counted as mucking it up. Can’t really come back from your dad being brutally murdered for touching up the nanny, can you?” Crowley forced out what was clearly meant to be a laugh, but the way his voice wavered, and his fingers were picking at the skin around his thumbs, making them bleed, ruined the illusion.

The words hung heavy between them. Tension and shame and feared poured off of Crowley in waves, his head bent as he focused on his bloodied hands. Aziraphale’s heart hammered in his ears as everything he thought he knew about the last six years of his life shifted. Crowley had been fine. They’d met up in museums and theatres and on buses,and Crowley had been fine. There’d been nothing amiss. He’d been fine. And yet … and yet, Crowley was not fine and had clearly not been fine for some time. 

The seconds ticked by. “Say something.” Crowley’s voice was so impossibly tense and quiet and vulnerable. But something more. Crowley was frightened of what Aziraphale of all people thought, and that simply would not do. 

Aziraphale swallowed. Forced himself to act. Leant forward and ever so lightly placed a hand over Crowley’s bloodied hands, stilling them before he did even more damage. “Let’s stop doing that before we hurt ourselves, shall we?” he murmured. He dipped his head and tried to catch Crowley’s eye behind his glass.

A single tear fell onto his hand. Crowley sniffed and pulled away, brushing angrily at his cheek. “Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, voice taut.

“Crowley…”

“Why are you here?”

“You weren’t answering my calls. I was worried.” The words fall out. Painfully in their honesty.

Crowley huffed a shaky breath, tilted his head up towards the ceiling. “Shoulda smited the bastard. Given him to Hell. Anything to stop -”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand, bringing his attention back to him. “But you couldn’t,” he reminded him gently.  
“Fucking embarrassing, is what it is,” muttered Crowley. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Crowley. He had a blessed cross, you know how those things hurt you so. And - “ Aziraphale held up a hand when Crowley went to speak. “And even if he hadn’t, it still wouldn’t be your fault. His sin. His choice. That’s what you always say, isn’t it?”

Crowley scoffed, disbelieving. “Even made the bloody Effort, angel. Tempted him and supplied the goods as well. Tell me how that wasn’t my fault,” said Crowley. His tone was bitter, but Aziraphale could hear the pleading hidden in there. Tell me I’m not to blame. Tell me you don’t hate me. 

“I think....” Aziraphale started carefully. “I think you felt you didn’t have a choice. You knew we had a job to do and you needed to pass as human. Making the Effort as it were facilitated that. I can’t imagine Mr Dowling reacting kindly if you hadn’t, and I certainly don’t think you would have remained in his employ.” He scanned Crowley’s glasses. “You didn’t have a choice.”

Crowley seemed to consider him for a long time before nodding once and looking away. Took his glasses off and laid them on the desk behind him. Rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Bloody bureaucrats. Hate the lot of them,” he muttered. 

“Yes. Well. They can be awfully unkind,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley let out a long, shuddering breath, his face still in his hands. “I really am very tired,” he mumbled after a while. 

“Would you like me to go?”

“No.” The word was directed at his own lap, but quiet and heart stoppingly earnest. 

Aziraphale shifted on the sofa. “I could...help, you know.” 

Crowley glanced up, amber eyes soft and hazy. He really did look very tired. ”Hm?”

“With the...sleeping. I know you’re very good at it, but I could make it nicer for you. Give you nice dreams. That sort of thing.” he shifted again. “That is...Obviously only if you wanted me to.”

“Sounds nice.” The tone was wistful, and Aziraphale wondered when the last time Crowley properly slept was. 

“Yes. Well. You should be able to rest properly in your own home.”

Crowley’s mouth twitched and his expression softened. “You really are very good.”

“Well. It is my job, my dear.” Aziraphale smiled at him. “Did you want to sleep now?”

“You didn’t have anywhere to be, did you?”

“No. Not at all. I’m yours for as long as you’ll have me.”

Crowley softened and stood. Held his hand out to Aziraphale and pulled him up.

“Oh, thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat. 

Crowley didn’t comment and wandered down the corridor, assuming correctly that Aziraphale would follow him. 

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the bottles cleared from the desk and the room was back to as it was. He left the sofa.

He assumed the darkened room to the side was Crowley’s and stopped in the doorway. Crowley was curled up in the king-sized bed in the centre of the room, watching him. Aziraphalle hesitated, and reflexively glanced behind him, suddenly worried he’d misread the situation. That he was crossing some unsaid line in their relationship. Presuming too much.

Crowley patted the space next to him. “You can get in, if you like,” he said quietly. “Or...or just stay there. Or in the living room. Whatever you want really, but...but if you did need to be in here to do your angelic stuff, then you can be.”

“No. No, I’ll join you.” Aziraphale stepped into the room and gingerly climbed into the bed, mindful of not jostling Crowley too much. He settled against the headboard. 

Hs fingers tightened and untightened along the edge of the duvet. “Well this is nice,” he said, testing the softness of the mattress. “I can see why you spend so much time in here.”

“Well you know me, angel. Only the best,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale hummed. This close, he could feel the generic hum of low grade evil and mischief that made up Crowley’s aura, but bubbling beneath that, thrumming and threatening to overtake, if given the chance, was more. Pain and anger and shame and oh, how could Crowley stand it? 

He took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m going to reach out to your aura now. Some people have said it’s a bit overwhelming at first, so if you want me to stop, just say, okay?”

“‘’Kay.”

Aziraphale carefully extended his aura, wary of overpowering Crowley with his Holiness, so that the jagged edges of his aura were wrapped in love and warmth. 

Crowley shifted in the bed, curling in on himself further. “Angel.” His voice was low and hoarse. 

“Do you want me to stop?” asked Aziraphale softly, voice barely above a whisper.

“No.” It was barely a breath, low and quiet.

“Just relax. I promise I won’t hurt you,” said Aziraphale, lessening the intensity of his aura until Crowley’s shoulders dropped and the line of his back softened as his eyes fluttered closed, and his breathing slowed and deepened. Aziraphale continued for a few more minutes, being ever so careful not to overstep his boundaries. He continued until the poor dear was sleeping soundly and then he gently disentangled their auras.

He breathed a sigh of relief to be away from all that pain and darkness. If he felt drained after being in contact with it for barely an hour, he could only imagine how it must drain Crowley. He looked down at Crowley’s sleeping form. Maybe that was why he slept so much. 

He looked almost…. Angelic like this. Auburn hair splayed across the pillow, the lines of his face relaxed and the tension he carried around nowhere in sight. Aziraphale shifted and looked around the dark and plain room. Now that Crowley was asleep, he didn’t know what to do with himself. A part of him thought about leaving - surely it couldn’t be acceptable to be in Crowley’s flat whilst he was asleep and vulnerable - but a larger part of him, the part that was apparently dictating all of Aziraphale’s actions this evening, knew that he could not, in good conscience, leave him. Not now. 

____________________________________________________________________________

The next morning, a demon woke up to an angel in his bed reading The Extremely Big Book of Astronomy. The next morning, a demon asked an angel to the new breakfast pop up across town. The next morning, an angel went back to his bookshop, and a demon went back to his flat to shout at his plants. The next morning, a demon cut his hair. The next morning, an angel pretended everything was fine.

Five years later, Crowley pretended to invite Aziraphale into his flat for the first time. Five years later, Aziraphale pretended to sit on the tartan sofa in Crowley’s flat for the first time.


End file.
